When you’re writing the eulogy
make sure to tell about the broke down trucks,
our cabin on the creek with the blown off roof,
the cobblestone curb on the lower Eastside
where we found two junkies crying,
remembering how they once had been.
The dogs and pups you loved,
the way the kids smelled in their sleep
and my hand wrapped in a sock
after catching it in a saw on the Cane.
Morning sun on the rimrock,
laughter of the canning room,
walking in the deep woods
and the way we broke our hearts.
Mention how I let you down
but we stayed together,
how the weight bent us double
yet we didn’t break.
The crazed look in Bob’s eyes
and the viking with his drywall trowel;
our place on the islands,
and the woman who taught me kindness.
Tell it like it wasn’t –
cowboying in Argentina,
rescuing ships at sea
and how we laugh
when the truth doesn’t matter.
Be sure to mention the redhead
with her Irish potatoes,
old Henry who worked us to shame
and how we gave them hell.
Tell it brother. Tell it all.